


ombra cara

by cracktheglasses (cormallen)



Series: viande rouge [2]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Cannibalism (referenced), Cannibalism Fantasy, Dark!Techie, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kylo Ren eats people, M/M, Masturbation, Murder (referenced), One-Sided Attraction, Sexual Horror, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 01:46:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10232942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cormallen/pseuds/cracktheglasses
Summary: Kylo isn’t the first person he’s seen kill. But he is the first person Techie wants to see do it again.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after @saltandlimes's [delightful Hux hops universes to visit this Kylo](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7525996). Unbeta-d, all errors and grossness mine.
> 
> All you really need to know about Techie: in Viande Rouge 'verse (...this is a verse, FML), Dark!Techie works for a shadowy outfit that enables his heavy-duty cyber-stalking habits -- details [here](http://cracktheglasses.tumblr.com/post/158293772341/cracktheglasses-raisedbycats-replied-to-your). 
> 
> A little Hannibal crossover side-quel that doesn't really fit the timeline exists [here](http://cracktheglasses.tumblr.com/post/156942016861/a-relationship-in-which-one-of-them-is-a-serial).

Tuesday evening, instead of going straight home after work, Techie has dinner at the Lane Hotel Restaurant and Bar. It’s too early yet to be busy, which makes it a little easier, though his hands still shake some as he unwraps his bundle of silverware, spreads the smooth cloth napkin over his lap. He starts to tap his foot waiting for his drink order, and notices he’s doing it, sneaker striking muffled into the floor.

Techie stops tapping. Puts his hands together in his lap, picks at his cuticles with a thumbnail.

He’s maybe underdressed; no one cares what the analysts wear at their stations, and he’s bundled into the same hoodie he had on yesterday and the day before, his favorite yellow shirt underneath. The collar’s acquired a permanent sheen and is beginning to fray; he isn’t sure what he’ll do when he’s worn it out completely. He should have gotten two, probably, but it’s too late to find another just like it now. It’ll be similar, but it won’t be quite the same, he thinks, finally pulling the sliver of skin loose from his ring finger, and resisting the urge to bring his hand to his mouth.

The server sets down the drinks -- a bottle of San Pellegrino with its accompanying glass, twist of lemon on the rim, and a whiskey sour. The cocktail is orange-gold, cherry impaled on a plastic pick bleeding a swirl of red syrup over ice.

He doesn’t usually drink; when he does, it’s mostly beer, and he hates the salty mineral fizz of the San Pellegrino, but this isn’t about his usual order or what he’d normally do after work. His normal is beef lo mein in a carton to go, congealing slowly on the table beside him, then dumped into a bowl with three packets of soy sauce, the kind with the rooster on the label that they throw into the bag. He’s never been to the Lane Hotel before except for in video, that first time when he pointed the PRISM into the alley out back, and then the police report and hours and hours more of the security footage he pulled up himself.

On minute two hundred and forty three, the red-haired man -- Armitage Hux, 34, in town for a conference, no identifying marks or tattoos -- was sipping a cocktail at the bar, the bottom button of his suit jacket casually undone. Out through the doors at two hundred fifty seven.

His office filed the missing persons report on minute five thousand six hundred and twenty one.

Techie’s food arrives just as he’s fishing the cherry out of the glass, and he startles, loses it, slid off the toothpick, sunken to the bottom. It’s just as well; he settles the toothpick between thumb and forefinger, pressing them closer, feeling its sharp plastic points digging into the meat.

“The sugar cured strip loin, medium rare, red wine demi-glace, garlic roasted mushrooms,” the server pronounces; Techie stares at the perfect grill marks seared into the steak, and feels his hands begin to tremble once again. It’s 6:27 PM, almost perfect: his -- interest? hobby? obsession? Kylo Ren -- has been eating dinner at 6:30 for the past two weeks.

He picks up the fork, the knife, wills his fingers to steadiness as he cuts in, the firm, browned surface of the meat easily giving way, sliding apart to reveal the wet rosy pink, the deep, rich red at the center. The demi-glace trickles lazily into the gash, mixing with the hot juices leaking out.

Techie lets the knife hit porcelain before he’s reaching for the small tablet in his pocket, quickly plugging his earbuds in, punching in his passcode. He habitually sends the PRISM interface into the background, pulls up the feed of the house at Frost Hill Road, long gravel front drive, fenced in yard, well-worn steps to the cellar around the back.

Kylo is seated at the kitchen island as expected, plate in front of him; he’s started already, smear of rich sauce on his knife. Techie cuts a second slice from the steak, spears it on his fork, waits for Kylo to do the same on camera.

Together, they bring their cuts to their mouths. Techie bites, letting the flavor gush onto his tongue.

Chews. Swallows.

On the tablet screen, Kylo lowers his silverware, runs the pad of his thumb over his shiny lower lip, then sucks it clean.

He should be repulsed. Disgusted. Scared. And he is that, maybe, just a little bit, though the fear is a thin line pulsing through the core of his fascination, his curiosity: Techie has never killed anyone. Not directly. Not with his own hands.

Kylo isn’t the first person he’s seen kill. But he is the first person Techie wants to see do it again.

He has no illusions about PRISM, about what it’s used for, what it’s meant for, just like he has no illusions about what it is he is doing, right at this very moment, this pale imitation of sharing Kylo Ren’s dinner. Like some depraved caricature of scribbling their names together in the margins of a college-ruled notebook, him + Kylo = a federal crime, punishable with up to five years in prison, and that’s just on his end.

On the tablet screen, Kylo suddenly scrunches up his face. Stands abruptly, chair scraping the floor, teetering behind him. Picks up his grease-smeared plate, and throws it into the wall.

It hits and shatters; Kylo’s glass follows, the dish of fruit on the counter, a candle, a pitcher, a knife. Grapes scatter on the floorboards, nestled in shards of glimmering glass. Techie watches, enraptured, as Kylo slowly sinks down against the kitchen island, leans his head back, closes his eyes. His Adam’s apple jumps in his exposed, tense throat, and Techie resists the urge to run his fingertip down the screen, like he can reach inside.

“Can I -- I want -- I’d like the rest of this to go,” he points at his own plate when the waiter checks in. This -- the rest of it -- ought to be private.

The ice cubes are melting in his drink, the perfect square shapes of them pitted, diminished. He counts out cash for his bill and takes a hurried sip, and then another, another, before they succumb completely.

\---

Wednesday, Kylo’s sleeping in the basement for the fourth night in a row. On the black-and-white video, his skin is a pale, clammy gray, hair a green-tinged inkblot staining the mattress. He’s lying on his stomach, face turned away from the lens, showing Techie his thick shoulders and muscled back, the taut curve of his ass through the bars of the cage.

His legs are slightly apart. Techie bites his lip as he stares at the dark shadow between them, wills Kylo to move, to turn, chest up, belly up, cock up like he did three nights ago: knees bent, one heavy hand slowly pumping his dick, thumb circling over the tip, tracing the flared head. The cage bars blocked his other hand from sight; the bend and stretch of Kylo’s elbow, the steady flex of his wrist hinting at the plug he was working into himself, and Techie moved closer to the screen, rubbed his eyes furiously like it would help him see better, more. Like it would let him sink into the wavering, grainy image, coming up at the cage door open wide, another step to be in between Kylo’s spread thighs, close enough to touch, smell, taste.

He has the sounds of Kylo through his headphones; the occasional mumble and light snore as he sleeps, the background hiss and whir of machinery -- the camera itself, the furnace when it kicks on in the adjacent room, the standalone freezer in the corner.

Sunday night, he had the wet, sweaty slap of skin on skin, hand meeting thighs over and over. The little moans Kylo made when he was close, and the thick, low growl as he came.

He gasped out something, still breathing hard, eyes closed. A string of words, the distance and poor quality of the mic eating them up. Techie watched his mouth move, his tongue flicking up between his teeth. The low light and desaturated hue of the video feed made Kylo’s come look pearlescent, almost glowing as it trickled down his fingers.

His own private show; like watching a camboy, a porno, except for how it wasn’t, Techie thinks, staring at the discolored, dingy padding under Kylo. The cage bars surrounding him. The utility table in the back of the basement, the surface stained what the video transformed into black and dark grey. The cuffs attached to the wall, the large iron hook swaying from the low ceiling. In the corner across from the freezer unit, the metal spikes leaned up against the exposed brick, gleaming dully.

After he finished, Kylo smeared his come-covered hand on the mattress and rolled over slowly, going to all fours. His mouth was open, face screwed up in a grimace as he reached behind himself, fingers hooking under the base of the plug, less obscured like this. Techie watched, transfixed, as he pulled the plug loose from his ass, the stainless steel flare of it far thicker, wider than he imagined. Kylo made a soft, broken noise as it slid out of him, then let it drop. The plug rolled, the uneven shape sending it into the cage bars, where it stopped and settled with a clang.

Had it been a real show, Kylo would have held the plug up, showing off the size, would have turned, ass to the camera, so it could focus on how the plug’s girth had hollowed him out. Would have pulled his ass apart with his hands, giving Techie his spread, open hole, smear of lube glistening around the stretched, reddened rim. Instead, he lay back on the floor, curling up like it was possible to make that great, immense body small, pulling a blanket over himself as he went. He drew it all the way up to his nose, scrunching the corner up in one hand; his chest lifted, nostrils flaring as he breathed deep.

Techie breathed along. The room he was in was air-conditioned, cool, but he could imagine the scent of the basement, stale, muggy. Tinged with blood and decay, with the bitter aftertaste of Kylo’s release. The insidious, baked-in smell of charred flesh, as repulsive as it was inviting.

He removed his headphones, turned the monitor off. Walked, on surprisingly steady legs, to the bathroom down the hall. Undid his zipper and stroked, furiously, the images behind his eyelids speeding up, fragmenting. Kylo’s hand wrapped around his cock -- wrapped around the cage bars -- wrapped around the spit as he hoisted it up. Kylo’s mouth, tongue tracing the edges of his sharp, predator teeth. Kylo on hands and knees, his ass opened up by the plug, ready, trickling lube. Kylo lifting the knife up from the table, curved and wicked. Kylo offering up a platter of meat, juicy, dripping, rosy red with blood. Kylo pushing him down, one hand enough to subsume both his wrists, knee forced hard up between his bony ones. Kylo feeding the length of stainless steel into him, delicately tonguing up the blood welling up from his mouth. The firelight flickering, reflecting off of his hard, looming frame.

Techie came in less than a desperate minute, lower lip hitched painfully in between his teeth, wiped his hands on his hem and the roll of toilet tissue before coming back to his desk. Getting the feed back up yielded Kylo settled in for sleep, blanket drawn up over his face and the soles of his feet exposed, like a body on a morgue slab.

Monday evening, Techie checked the upstairs cam and the driveway, first, then the backyard with its cold fire pit that made his heart speed up, echoing uncomfortably in his throat. Bitter, curious spit pooled in his mouth, and he swallowed reflexively, feeling his chest constrict. He finally found Kylo in the basement again, already asleep in the cage, a small bundle of something tied together with twine clutched loosely in his hands. Hair, Techie realized, strands of hair, the twine tied around it in a bow, and wished for color, for the camera to confirm what he knew it was, red, red, _red_.

His hands trembled as he undid his belt. Unzipped. Pulled his pants down to his knees.

\---

Thursday evening, he unpacks his deliveries and takes them into his bedroom before struggling to get his contacts out in front of the bathroom mirror. They irritate his eyes, make them itchy and dry when he leaves them in too long in front of the screen. He rubs at his scarred temple in frustration, blinks rapidly like that’ll shake the contacts loose, rinses his fingers and tries again. He should probably wash his hands with antibacterial soap first, but he doesn’t have the patience, wants the silicone gel out, out, the scales gone from his eyes. They’re red, the skin of his eyelids feeling raw as he finally manages it, slides his backup glasses up over his nose in their place. Stares uncomfortably into the mirrored cabinet.

Up close like this, he looks less like Hux. He has similar features to the man on the hotel’s security tape -- the sharp nose, pale brows, pale lips in a chalky face. But he is too soft, too muted; he looks maybe more like the man from Kylo’s basement, reddened eyes and bitten mouth, shoulders unevenly slouched, but his hair is a slightly wrong shade of red, and too long. He’s gathered it in a loose tail at his nape, held there with a length of twine; he hasn’t tied it in a bow, just let the ends drape down into the grown-out strands.

He wonders if the similarity might be more, underneath. If under cloth, inside skin, he too, is rosy red flesh dripping demi-glace; if below the cage of his ribs, he’s plastic and paper-wrapped portions tied with twine and ready for the deep freeze. PRISM makes everyone disposable; maybe so does Kylo, but at least, for Kylo, it’s personal. It’s not petty, it’s not for politics, it’s not for money. It’s for pleasure. For pain, too. And Kylo doesn’t waste a thing.

The set of plugs looks perfect when Techie unwraps the packing materials and opens the box. A stainless steel trio nestled into red satin compartments. He’ll have to start with the smallest one for now; he doesn’t want it to hurt, not yet.

He turns off the lights, leaving himself only the glow of the screen, like a nightlight. Settles in bed, and waits for Kylo to come down the basement stairs.

**Author's Note:**

> You know the drill, [shame me here](http://cracktheglasses.tumblr.com/).


End file.
